


Fragile Silence

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaker Dean, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Sharing a Bed, Title Subject to Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9830021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Coda to s12e12 "Stuck In The Middle (With You)""Dean wants to tell Cas to shut up and go to sleep, but he can’t interrupt. Not now. The air around him feels fragile."





	

                They don’t go home. Dean wants to. He wants to crawl back into the dark, deep safety of the bunker, underground where nothing can hurt them, nothing can get to them. He wants to curl up in his own bed, engulfed by the familiar smells and warmth and knowledge that they were all safe.

                But he’s so tired, bone deep exhausted, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Every little movement is taxing on his mind and body. The events of the day are still processing through his mind, bit by bit, and holy hell, had it really only been a day? It felt like weeks.

                They burn Wally. Dean had heard of the guy here and there through the hunter grapevine, hadn’t met him until this morning, but he’d been cool. Dean wished he could’ve had a beer with him, trade hunting stories. He didn’t like to make friends with hunters usually—they were all typically scumbags—but Wally had been cool.

                After the fire dies out, they stand there quietly for a moment. Then, they trudge back to the cars, back to the old grindstone. There isn’t time for mourning, not in this life.

                Mom gets in her midsize, Sam takes the keys for Cas’s truck and Dean—Dean ushers Cas into the passenger seat of the Impala, his hand just barely brushing against Cas’s shoulder. There’s still so much blood on his clothes. How can one body hold so much blood?

                Dean swallows as he closes the door behind Cas, bracing his hands on the hood of the Impala as he fought for composure.

                Sam and Mom are staring at him. Dean gnaws on his lip.

                Then he makes the journey to the driver’s side, each step like a leap of the continent. He gets in, fires up the engine. Cas is leaning against the window, face tucked into the corner of the seat and the door. He’s panting.

                Dean forces his eyes on the road. It was only an hour to the hotel Sam had found. He only had to last an hour.

                As he drives, he only thinks about the road. Nothing else. He can’t let himself think about anything else.

\--

                They get something nice for once. Not a ratty, dilapidated motel off the side of the road with a busted up billboard that charges by the hour and wouldn’t have enough room for the four of them. They splurge, get a real hotel, the kind that offers an all-you-can eat continental breakfast in the morning. Mom is the least bloody of all of them, so she books a suite for them for the night. Dean’s grateful they won’t have to split up.

                He and Sam work on sneaking Cas into the building, duffel bags slung over their shoulders for extra protection, wary of the watchful eyes of the front desk clerk, and anyone who may be in the lobby despite the late hour. Dean stands on one side, Sam on the other, and it helps that Cas is just a bit shorter than Dean, because now he’s barricaded by the Winchesters, and hopefully—hopefully no one will see him as he is and rightfully panic and call the police.

                They take the stairs, even though they’re all tired and have to hoist Cas up most the way, but the elevator was too risky. Too risky of someone seeing, too risky of being caught on camera.

                It takes them almost ten minutes to get from the car to the room, but once the door safely closes behind them, and Dean hears the resounding sound of Sam securing the deadbolt, all the tension he’d been holding in his body for the last few hours deflates and he exhales.

                He looks at Cas. Cas, still pale and bloody, clothes drenched in red and sticking to his skin, with dark circles under his eyes and an exhaustion weighing on his shoulder.

                But still alive.

                Still very alive.

                Dean drops his duffel bag.

                “Go shower,” he mumbles, pulling out the first pair of sweatpants and wrinkled t-shirt he finds. Cas takes them gingerly, their fingers barely brushing.

                Cas closes his fingers tight around the bundle of clothes and walks away, disappearing behind a door that seems too far for Dean’s liking.

                As soon as Cas is gone from sight, Dean’s knees buckle underneath him.

                “I’m gonna be sick,” he says, clutching at his stomach.

                There’s a trashcan in front of his face, and Dean retches. The last time he ate was breakfast, at that diner, and god, it seemed so long ago. There’s not much to vomit besides spittle and stomach acid, but it burns at Dean’s esophagus and his stomach twists violently with each movement. There’s a large hand patting him on the back as Dean fights for breath.

                “You okay?” Sam asks after a moment.

                Dean swallows—tears burn at his eyes from puking—and nods.

                He looks up. Sam is beside him, already working on tying up the trash bag and Mom is standing there, backed into the corner, looking like she’s barely keeping it together herself.

                Dean’s hands are coated in blood and ash.

                Sam helps him to his feet.

                “Is there anything we need?” Sam asks. “Food?”

                “I’m not hungry,” Dean says, wiping his mouth.

                “Me neither,” Mom says.

                Sam nods too.

                “I just want a shower and to go to bed,” Dean says. Maybe not even the shower. It’s a chore just to keep his eyes open and to stay upright. Maybe he could just fall face first onto a mattress and sleep as is. He’s slept in worse conditions before.

                “There should be another shower, if you want,” Sam says. Dean huffs. He takes time to examine the room Mom got them. It really is nicer than their usual sort of spot. They’re standing in a small living space with a couch, a small TV, and a kitchenette. To Dean’s right is a bedroom. Beyond the crack, he can see two queen size beds and hear the shower running. To Dean’s left is another bedroom, with another bathroom. Compared to their usual stay, this is the freaking White House. Probably cost a pretty penny too, but after today, they deserve it.

                Dean shakes his head. “Nah. You or Mom take it first.”

                Sam and Mom share a look.

                “Dean,” Mom says, clearing his throat. Her voice is scratchy, like she’s been crying. “Take a goddamn shower.”

\--

                The water sluices over his skin, pounding against his back. The pressure isn’t as good as the bunker, but it’s better than the other sort of places they’ve stayed before. Dean looks down at the floor, watches as pink water spins down the drain. It’s not his blood, he thinks. Not all of it, at least. He’d gotten tossed around a bit, has a bitch of a bruise that crawls up his right hip all the way to his shoulder, but he doesn’t have any open wounds, nothing to cause that much blood.

                He wants to throw up again, but all that happens is a burning in his throat.

                Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears start to drop  down, puddling into the pinkness.

                He braces his hands against the wall of the shower, tremors running down his spine. It doesn’t take long after that for tears to race freely down his face. The water covers up the sounds of his sobs and he stands there, unbothered by the tears and blood and tremors, wishing the water would burn hotter, burn hot enough to scour the memories away, the memory of Cas’s blood hot on his hands, of those awful, awful black finger-like veins that reached up from Cas’s hips to his face, of Cas’s pained screams, Cas’s tears, that torturous sight of Cas choking on that black goop, of Dean not being able to do _anything_ to save his best friend.

                Dean doesn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he gasps for air.

                He cries, clenching his fists tight, nails biting into his palms. He beats his hand against the tiled wall, grunting each time, gagged only by him biting down onto his tongue until it bleeds.

                How many times? How many times is he going to have to watch Cas die? How many times is someone he cares about going to be hurt and all Dean can do is stand there and watch? Cas is alive. He’s okay. But not because of anything Dean did. No, Cas is alive because of _Crowley_ and that makes goosebumps rise on Dean’s arms despite the scalding water. Crowley saved Cas when Dean couldn’t and Dean hates that. Hates it, hates it, hates it!

                And Cas isn’t even truly okay, not really, because there’s those goddamned _cosmic consequences_ lurking around the corner, hidden, mysterious, waiting for their moment to strike, to steal Cas away. And if Dean couldn’t do shit about saving Cas from a fucking psychotic demon, how the hell is he is supposed to protect Cas from something unseen and as mysterious as cosmic consequences?

                There’s a knocking on the bathroom door.

                “Dean?” Mom’s voice comes through. “Dean, are you all right in there?”

                Dean swallows. Forces his muscles to still. He wipes his tears away, turns the water off, and forces himself out of the shower.

\--

                Cas is lying in bed, covers pulled up just to his hip. He’s turned away from Dean, and Dean stands there in the doorway, watching for a moment. It’s only happened on rare occasions, but Dean can’t ever get used to the sight of Cas in something other than his angel uniform of suit and tie and fuck ugly coat. Something about seeing him now, in normal clothes, makes him look so human, fragile and small. It’s not right. It’s not right for something as ancient and powerful and terrifying as Cas to look so small.

                _I love you._

It’s not right for something as ancient and powerful and terrifying as Cas to love someone like him.

                Dean had been trying not to think about it. He’d been trying to take care of crisis after crisis—save Cas, get Wally’s body, get them all somewhere safe, get them clean—and now, there’s nothing he can do but let them rest and get back on the road tomorrow, get them home.

                Until then, he can’t distract himself.

                _I love you._

                Dean gets into the other bed. He turns to face Cas. Cas’s face is pressed into the pillow. Dean watches the slow rise and fall of Cas’s shoulders.

                It’s not enough. It’s not enough to just lay here and watch. Dean closes his eyes and he’s back in that barn, and Cas is in so much pain and there’s nothing Dean could do, and there’s that awful, horrible, black stuff—

                Dean forces his eyes open. He gets up on his feet and stands by the edge of Cas’s bed, watching. He used to call Cas a creeper for watching him sleep, but he understood it now. The assurance that everything was okay, that this wasn’t all a dream, and it all wouldn’t go to shit when Dean woke up.

                “Dean,” Cas’s voice is quieter and harsher than usual. He cracks his eyes open halfway and gives a weak smile.

                “Hey,” Dean says, forcing a smile himself. It’s hard to smile when all he can think about is how close they came to burning two bodies today. “Um, you okay? You hurting anywhere?”

                Cas shakes his head. “Not hurting…” He pauses, does that thing Dean’s seen him so often do, where he’s searching for the proper word. It’s moments like these that remind Dean that Cas is not really human, that’s he’s ancient and terrifying and must have thousands and thousands of languages backlogged into his brain that he has to sift through every day just to make basic conversation.

                _I love you._

“Just…sore,” Cas says eventually. “And tired.”

                Dean nods. “Uh, do you…do you need something for the pain?”

                Cas shakes his head. “I’m all right, Dean.”

                Cas is ancient, a million years old, and the time he’s spent with the Winchesters has been the best time of his life. Dean thinks for that to be the case, Heaven must have been a really shitty place to hang out even before Cas realized what a farce the entire thing was. Life with the Winchesters was never boring, but Dean certainly wouldn’t consider it something to be envious of. Especially for Cas—how can these years have been the best years of his life? Years of torture, abuse, death, neglect…

                “Dean,” Cas whispers. “Come here.”

                Dean stares at the empty space in the bed, where Cas’s hand motions.

                _I love you._

Fuck it. Cas almost died tonight.

Dean crawls into the empty space of the bed. Cas covers him with the comforter. They’re so close, practically pressed against each other’s chests. They’re two fully grown men, a queen bed isn’t enough room to accommodate them, but Dean is actually grateful for the closeness. This close, he can feel Cas’s warm breath on his skin, feel the heat off Cas’s body.

                Dean stares at Cas. He looks older, Dean thinks fleetingly. There are lines at the corners of his eyes, just the barest hint of gray hair at his temples. This close, he can’t ignore Cas. He can’t push Cas away, or out of mind.

                Dean reaches down and pulls at the hem of Cas’s borrowed t-shirt, a faded _Metallica_ logo just barely visible. Cas stills under Dean’s touch, holds his breath. Dean pulls the hem up and looks at Cas’s hip. Dean runs his fingertips over the patch of skin that moments ago, had been open and gushing blood. It was redder than the rest of the skin, but intact. No sign of injury present.

                _I love you._

                Dean swallows and cups the back of Cas’s head. He presses their foreheads together and fights to collect his breath.

                “I thought you were gonna die,” Dean says, so quiet he can barely hear himself. He curls his fingers into Cas’s hair. His throat grows tight. “I thought you were gonna die and there was nothing I could do.”

                “I’m okay,” Cas whispers. His fingers trace along Dean’s clavicle. “I’m alive, Dean.”

                “Cas, I…I…you too. Just so you know.” God, he’s such a fucking coward. Why can’t he say it? Why can’t he force the words out? Cas almost died tonight. Almost died a slow, torturous death, almost had to watch Dean and Sam and Mary die too and he can’t say a few simple words? “Iloveyoutoo,” he forces it out, all in a jumble like he’s choking on it.

                Cas hums beside him. Continues to trace his finger up and down and around Dean’s heart.

                “I-I,” now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop. “I know I don’t say it much—or at all, actually—but…but it’s true. I love you so much.”

                I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s terrifying because before I only had Sam. It was easier with Sam. It’s easier to only have to worry about Sam. Loving more people means having to watch more people die, watch them get hurt. I can’t stand seeing you get hurt.

                He doesn’t say that. He can’t say any of that. He can barely think them, they seem to be turning to mush inside his brain. Instead, he just says, “I love you,” over and over again, until he can’t hear his own voice, until they stop sounding like words. He’s got almost ten years’ worth of ‘I love yous’ to make up for.

                Cas shushes him. “I’m okay, Dean,” he says.

                Dean nods, unable to talk for a long while. He and Cas lay there, pressed together, in silence for a long time.

                “Your mom called me ‘Cas’”, Cas says eventually.

                Dean opens his eyes to look at Cas. Cas’s gaze is unfocused, eyes bleary. Dean wonders how lucid he actually is. He’s about to speak, chastise, tell Cas to go to bed, but Cas keeps on talking.

                “She’s only called me Castiel until today. And she was so nice to me while we were waiting for you.”

                Dean swallows. “’Course she was,” Dean says, because what else can he say? “You’re family.”

                Mom saved Cas too. Dean’s still a little fuzzy on all details—and he’s not even sure if he wants all of them—but Mom got Cas away from that son of a bitch, got him somewhere safe, put a tourniquet on the wound, maybe bought him extra time. Dean makes a note to thank her in the morning.

                Cas smiles softly. It’s quiet again for a long moment. Dean’s almost asleep himself, lulled by Cas’s steady breathing. But he’s broken from the trance again when Cas speaks.

                “Ramiel…he was an angel, once.”

                Dean’s quiet.

                “He was an archangel, actually.”

                That gets Dean’s attention, wakes him up like someone tossed ice water on him. “What? How? There’re only four archangels.”

                “There were originally seven,” Cas mumbles. He’s tired too. Dean’s rarely seen Cas so tired, rarely seen Cas so beat up. Sure, Cas gets thrown around a lot, and Dean’s had to help clean him up from time to time. But in the grand scheme of things, those were minor injuries. Bumps and scrapes. Nothing compared to today. Nothing like bleeding out, nothing to ease Cas’s pain. Dean wants to tell Cas to shut up and go to sleep, but he can’t interrupt. Not now. The air around him feels fragile.

                “Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, Gabriel, Sariel, Ramiel.”

                “That’s only six,” Dean says.

                “The seventh’s name has been lost to time.”

                That’s so sad, Dean thinks. It really does seem so terribly sad. To just disappear from history? To not even have left behind a name?

                Dean looks at Cas’s eyes, watches them droop lower and lower, listens to Cas’s breaths become more spread apart, deeper.

                Dean doesn’t want to talk about ‘I love yous’ or dead archangels. Today feels like its lasted years and he just wants it to be over. Over and move on. Move on with this…whatever this is, that’s now fully blossomed between him and Cas.

                “Go to sleep Cas,” Dean says and he kisses the crown of Cas’s head.

                Cas closes his eyes.

                Dean throws his arm around Cas, pulls him closer. Cas’s heart beats against Dean’s chest and Dean feels like he can breathe.

                “I love you,” Dean mutters against Cas’s skin. He says it again, and again, and again until he can’t hold his eyes open anymore and he falls asleep pressed against his angel.

\--

                Mary didn’t mean to intrude on anything. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get that image of Castiel out of her mind, knowing…knowing that she was responsible. If he had died…it would have been all her fault.

                And she’s horrified. Not just that Castiel could have died tonight, but that her sons might have too. They were very lucky. Hunters don’t get lucky, but they did today. They all are alive.

                Except for Wally…her heart aches at the thought of Wally. Wally hadn’t deserved what happened to him. She forced him to lie, and then he got killed. She would have to carry that guilt with her the rest of her life; but they gave him a proper funeral. They did the best they could for him.

                But she almost got her sons killed. All she had to do was give up what she’d stolen and Ramiel would have let them go. But she couldn’t give it up. She’d been unable to give it up, physically unable, and that horrifies her, that she could put her sons at such great a risk. It was only a weapon, but it was one of the most powerful weapons in the world. She couldn’t just let a weapon that powerful stay locked away. But how could she put it above her own sons? Over her family?

                She just wanted to check on Castiel. Make sure he was okay. Still breathing. Alive. Logically she knew he was okay. He had Dean to look after him. But she had to see it for herself. Just to be sure.

                She cracked open the door as quietly as she could.

                She hadn’t expected to see the sight she did. Dean and Castiel in the same bed, tightly wrapped around each other. She was taken aback, but only briefly. She stared at them for a moment. They looked so relaxed, so peaceful. Even Dean, whom had always seemed so angry, was lax, that persistent scowl gone from his face. And Castiel, who always looked so sad and defeated, always looked like he was secretly in pain, looked unbothered and healthy.

                She thinks of Cas saying, through his pain, “I love you” and looks in Dean’s direction. Mary stood there for a long moment and then she closed the door as softly as she could. With the door closed, anger surged through her veins and she fumbled for her phone. It was at ten percent battery. The case was stained in blood. She fumbled to unlock it and pull up the right number. It rang and rang and rang. Mary bit on her lip, fingers clenching around the phone case.

                “Did you get it?” Ketch’s voice came on, clear and steady.

                Mary thought of Dean and Castiel just behind that door. Of what almost happened today. Of what she really almost lost. “Ketch,” she said steadily. Angrily. They’d been set up. These assholes set her up and she almost lost one of her boys. “We need to talk.”


End file.
